


Came here to forget

by Fire_moon



Category: King Arthur: Legend of the Sword (2017)
Genre: Brother/Brother Incest, Childhood Memories, Hurt No Comfort, I Wrote This Instead of Sleeping, I broke my heart while writing this, I love this ship way too much, Jealousy, M/M, No but really, Unresolved Romantic Tension, Unresolved Sexual Tension, at least most of it, guess whos fault that is
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-03-28
Updated: 2020-03-28
Packaged: 2021-02-28 20:01:44
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,684
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23362897
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Fire_moon/pseuds/Fire_moon
Summary: And maybe, maybe it is, after all, not Uther himself who he hates the most. But what he makes him feel.
Relationships: Uther Pendragon/Vortigern (King Arthur: Legend of the Sword)
Comments: 3
Kudos: 8





	Came here to forget

**Author's Note:**

  * For [susiecarter](https://archiveofourown.org/users/susiecarter/gifts), [linndechir](https://archiveofourown.org/users/linndechir/gifts).



> because your wonderful stories in this fandom inspired me to write my own. Thank you.
> 
> This is my first English story (English isn't my first language).
> 
> The story is set more or less right after the beginning of the movie. After Uther killed Mordred and they had their assembly.  
> There is a flashback, or rather two of them in which Vortigern is 15, respectively, 16 (Uther is 2 years older than Vortigern in this story). I've found no good way to include their age in the text but thought it'd be good to know for orientation.
> 
> So, what's left to say.. I hope you enjoy this little story!

When Vortigern was a child, whenever he wanted to be alone, needed some space – from Uther or rather the admiring gazes that seemed to follow his brother's every step, from the attention, the recognition that Uther received so much more than himself; from the castle that constantly reminded him who it was built for. For a king. A king, that Uther would be one day and who'd have much more important things to do and care about than his brother. When it all got too close from time to time, the feelings too intense, when it all just got too _much_ , he'd escaped. Ran down one of the countless corridors to the old, narrow timber stair in the north wing which was only rarely used by servants and led him out of the castle and to the water. A place no one but him knew – or so he believed back then – a place where he was alone.

No mother and father he tried so much to make proud but seemed to fail, at least a little, every time. No crowd which practically ignored him due to the presence of his glorious brother. And no Uther, who was so goddamn perfect and at the same time everything he had. Just stones, water and wideness. And silence.

He'd started to understand, even though he wasn't older than 10 back then, where his place was. He saw it, _felt_ it, in the way he suddenly had to stand and walk a few steps behind Uther on official occasions. In how Uther, one day, when they finally got to stand next to each other didn't react to his whispered jokes and comments as he'd done it in the past. Instead he remained silent not even a short glance left for him. In the way he told Vortigern for the first time that he doesn't 'understand that' and he felt that it wasn't because he was younger than Uther.

All this moments had been like a small glimpse of the future which already seemed to reach out its dark and inexorable hands towards him.

It had taken him some time to realize that the knowledge of how it'd be one day was so much worse than all reverent glances which were focused on his brother without even grazing him. That it wasn't the crowd's attention he craved the most – but his brother's. And that a 'Well done' from his father – as rare as it was – was nothing compared to what he felt when it came from Uther, paired with a gentle smile and a warm look from brown eyes.

There had been this tight, burning feeling in his chest, that flared up every time Uther ignored him, or had something more important to do than spending time with his brother - which happened all too often now. He felt Uther diverging further and further from him, slowly, yet clearly noticeable. And that feeling in his chest stayed, a feeling he, as he grew older, soon accustomed himself to call anger. Until he eventually believed it himself. Even though he knew, deep down, what it really was. A feeling, which name he had buried under countless layers of pride, defiance, anger and – although he'd never admit this, especially not to himself – fear. He'd buried it, in the useless, desperate attempt to make the feeling itself dissappear.

To make the pain disappear.

The older he got, the rarer he visited his secret place. Not because it all got away somehow – and it certainly didn't get _easier –_ but because he learned, more and more, to control his feelings. Or rather, to lock them away, to bury them so deep inside of him that not even he could reach them. And that, at least for some time, nothing remained except a dull, steady throbbing inside his chest, like the feeling of a wound whose ache you numb with alcohol. Not directly painful but enough to remind you that the lesion is there.

The visits became rarer, but therefor longer.

Vortigern refused to call them anything else. Anything that would imply he was running away. He wasn't running away. Not from his father and his expectations, when he was storming down one of the corridors. Not from Uther, when he left the castle and nearly fell because his feet found no grip on the wet and slippery stones that layed on the narrow way down to the cliffs and he refused to slow his steps. And definitely not from his feelings, when he sat there and stared out at the water, until he couldn't feel his hands and feet and the cold from the stone under him had crept in his body and made it feel numb.

Other than when he had been a child and wouldn't spend more than a few hours out there, driven home into the warmth of the castle by the cold wind, he'd remained longer now. Cowering motionless between the rough, high rocks, the water breaking in tiny waves a few inches away from his feet. Not rarely he'd spent a whole day like this. Listening to the sound of the wind that came from the water and never seemed to stop.

His long absence had more than once brought him the unbridled anger of his father and an undercooling but neither of it kept him from returning to the small bay. When he again failed to hold it all together, to bury that goddamn, annoying, _burning_ feeling inside of him. When he felt himself falling apart, due to a pair of painfully warm, brown eyes, which looked at him for too long, or not long enough.

*

He hadn't been here in a long time. And still, he realizes, remembers every rock, every small, bleak bush, every crack in the stone, as if it's been a few days and not more than a decade.

Vortigern lets his gaze wander over the water in front of him, his fast breath creating small, white clouds in the cool air. Wide and smooth, the lake reflects the sunlight as bright as a mirror, just like it did so many years ago.

It is cold down here. It had always been cold.

That's probably not fully true. Even though the high rocks shield the cove from the sun most of the day and therefore from it's warmth, in summer it must be relatively warm, even here in the shadow between the cliffs. However in his memory, it had always been cold.

It's not been long since he's left the castle but the wind, blowing icy and inexorable, already causes a burning feeling on his skin and his fingers beginning to get numb. Vortigern remembers this feeling too. Remembers, how he'd welcomed it. The sharp and at the same time dull pain that'd begun to creep in his limbs and slowly spread into his whole body, distracting him from the ache in his chest, from his thoughts, just enough that he wouldn't loose his mind.

One cold, burning pain in exchange for the other.

He'd sworn himself to never set foot in this place again. And here he is.

Without wanting to, Vortigern's glance lands on a not quite man-high rock among the small, rounded stones that cover the ground. The sick feeling that rises in his stomach is like an echo, just that it didn't lose any of its intensity from back then. The memory overwhelms him, like a wave of icecold, dark water, dragging him along without him having a chance to fight it.

„ _Vortigern!“ The voice comes from further up along the way, from the castle, nearly gets carried away from the wind, but Vortigern recognises it anyway. Would recognise it under a thousand voices, like a curse he can't shake off._

_Uther._

_This one time he hadn't made sure that he doesn't see him leave, or at least that he can't follow him. And of course his brother had to run after him, oh so perfect and **good** as he is. Vortigern hates him for it, but he hates even more what it sparks in him. The insane, pathetic hope that it could mean something._

_He speeds up his steps, even though the ground becomes more and more slippery, the closer he gets to the foot of the cliffs._

_His breath is ragged, as he enters the cove, his heart pounding in his chest like a trapped bird. The part of his mind that isn't a miserable mess, quickly weights his possibilities, coming to the conclusion that there are exactly two of them._ _One is to stay where he is. Which isn't really an option at all, as it would make this place preposterous upon Uther finding him here.  
Option two is to hide behind one of the rocks and hope that Uther would assume that he'd left the path which led down to the cliffs somewhere._

_He just wants to drop this idea because only the thought of hiding from his brother like a frightened mouse hunted by a cat makes him want to vomit. But in this moment Uther's voice sounds again, closer now, echoing over the waves crashing against the shore, making him flinch. The sudden wave of panic that flashes through him is followed by disgust and anger.  
His brother's voice is followed by footsteps coming closer and he knows that he has to make a decision, that he has to make it now._

_The uneven rock is pressing against his back, cold and wet, as he cowers behind it._ _Praying for Uther not to find him and hating himself for doing so._ _Trying to persuade himself that this place is the only reason why he's hiding from his brother and not that, right now, he couldn't bear the expression he knows he would find in Uthers eyes._

_Only two heartbeats later he enters the small bay and God, Vortigern had rarely hoped so much to hear anger in his voice. But instead there is, **of course** , only concern, mixed with a hint of insecurity. Hypocritical bastard. _ _Vortigern grits his teeth, fighting back the burning want to grab Uther by the collar and shove him against one of the rocks to make him shut up._

_A short silence follows, then a few creaky steps. Vortigern closes his eyes._ _But then the steps become silent again. Because of the wind it's hard to tell but he believes to hear a deep sigh._

_When Uther finally leaves, Vortigern stays where he is, trying to swallow the mixture of sickening feelings inside of him, mixed with a shameful amount of relief._ _He hears the footsteps getting more and more quiet, slowly opens his eyes again._

_A part of him still wants to grab Uther and scream at him, but another part is just glad that he's gone._

_Alice? Aileen? Vortigern doesn't remember the name of the servant girl, had only overheard it a few hours ago, when Uther's asked her about it. Not that he'd care for her name, in fact, he couldn't care less._

_**What** he cares about is the way Uther looks at her, **smiles** at her and God, it makes him want to vomit! Or to scream and throw things, of that he isn't quite sure._

_The blue-eyed girl with the black hair is one of the servants that arrived with their guests, who are, now that the 'official' part of the festivity is over, distributed in the whole audience hall._ _Uther and the servant girl – whatever her name is – sit a good way away from most of the other people, on a small bench, talking, laughing. Vortigern doesn't want to see it, but is still unable to look away._ _The way his brother's eyes shine when he looks at her makes his stomach cramping up and sparks a feeling in his chest, he can't quite identify. Anger, yes. Frustration. But also a feeling of something sharp and hot digging into his flesh. Stinging and burning._

_Uther leans forward a few inches and whispers something in the girl's ear, who laughs in response and Vortigern is in luck that his cup is made of metal, because glass or any other fragile material would have bursted under his grip. He abruptly turns away, getting up from the table he's sitting at, to search for something to refill his mug. Wine sounds like a good idea, even though he knows that father wouldn't endorse that. Not that he cared anyway._

_When he returns to his place, Uther and the girl are gone. Vortigern lets his gaze wander through the hall, in the slight hope that she had had to return to her obligations as a servant and Uther had found new company in the meanwhile. But unsurprisingly he can spot neither of them. They're gone, of course._

_For a moment, Vortigern just closes his eyes, trying to control the feeling in his chest that seems to increase with every heartbeat. The knuckles of his hand, still holding the cup, getting white._

_ It's one thing to  **watch** his brother and this girl, but an entirely other to  **imagine** what they're doing. On that score his mind had always been very imaginative, mostly more than he'd welcomed. _

_When he gets up, it's so abruptly, that the wine in his mug spills out and runs over his fingers, but he barely even notices. Instead he leaves the audience hall with fast steps, his feet knowing the way to the north wing almost on their own._

_The night air is warm, as he leaves the castle and takes the narrow way down to the cliffs. In his head, he still sees the way Uther looked at this girl, squeezing his eyes shut and shaking his head to make the image dissappear. It even works, just that it gets replaced by new, not really better imaginations of what might happen right now in his brothers chambers. Vortigern clenches his fists, a frustrated growl escaping his lips, he fastens his steps._

_The sky is starlit, the moon casting its silver light on the landscape, lighting it up. Otherwise he'd probably seen the two shadows in the cove later._ _He stops abruptly, staring at the shapes not more than 4 meters away from him. Even with the moon not shining brightly above his head, he'd recognize them immediatly._ _They haven't noticed him, maybe because of the wind howling between the cliffs and drowning most of any other noises, but most likely because they're.. busy._

_Uther's hands are buried in the girls black hair, and he's kissing her, no space left between them as Uther's body is pressing hers against a rock in the middle of the cove._

_At first, everything Vortigern feels is a sensation as if something incredibly heavy lays on his chest, crushing him, preventing him from breathing. At the same time it feels like an invisible creature is digging its claws into his heart, squeezing, tighter and tighter._ _He can't move, can't **think** , just stand there and stare at his brother, kissing this servant girl whose name he doesn't even know._

_And then something changes. Vortigern doesn't know what causes it, but all of a sudden, a new feeling sparks inside of him, hot and burning, like a fire._ _Directed at this bloody girl who dared to lay her eyes on his brother, to talk to him, to **touch** him like this. _ _And at Uther who suddenly just had eyes for her and looks at her in a way he'll never-_

_Vortigern clenches his fists, his jaw hurting from the pressure with which he grits his teeth._

_But beyond the anger and the tormenting feeling in his chest, there is something else._ _He can't really grasp why, but underneath these other things, he just feels utterly, utterly betrayed. Maybe because Uther brought her **here**. In this bay. _ _Deep down he knows that his brother couldn't actually know what this place is, because Vortigern hid from him – or could he, anyways? But it doesn't matter. The feeling stays, burning and at the same time icecold, causing an emptiness in his chest he never felt before._

_Suddenly, from one moment to the next, the wind calms down. Through the resulting silence, he can hear a stifled gasp from Uther, as the girl buries one hand in his hair, and that does it._ _A part of him wants to storm over and drag this goddamn servant girl away from his brother and he doesn't know what prevents him from doing exactly that. Maybe his pride. Instead he turns on his heels and leaves the bay. The path upwards to the castle, away, just away._

_He runs, faster and faster, even though he can barely see the trail, due to the blurredness of his vision._

It had been the night in which something inside of him had changed.

The anger he'd felt at Uther so often, had turned into something sharper, deeper and colder. Something he'd felt before, but each time just for a few heartbeats, before it had been replaced by the familiar feeling of rage.

Hate.

And it had been this night in which the thought that it shouldn't be Uther but _him_ who'd be king, first crossed his mind. Of course he had thought about that before, had imagined how it'd be if he would be the crown prince, if he'd rule someday. But it had never been serious. Never been more than a scenario, a figment, so far away that it'd never come true. The thought that he could do something about it, something to _make_ it come true, had never came to his mind, at least not in a way that he'd really considered it. Not until this night.

The funny thing is, that the hate hadn't made his other feelings disappear or at least get weaker – it just makes them hurt even more.

Vortigern still stares at the rock a few feet away from him. In some way, some twisted, abstruse way, it is all its fault. And maybe it is pathetic, absurd, to give a _stone_ the fault for all this, but it makes things easier.

It all has started here. Or maybe it has stared way earlier, back when they were children and cuddled up in the same bed because one of them - mostly Vortigern - has had a nightmare. (Sometimes he didn't even have a bad dream, had just pretended it, so that he could crawl in Uthers bed and snuggle up to him. He still wonders if his brother has seen through it then.)  
In the way his older brother had gently pulled him in his arms, his head laying on his chest, feeling Uthers heartbeat. In the way his warmth and gentle fingers running through his hair have calmed him. In the feeling of security and the thought, that his brother was everything he really needed, everything he wanted.

He'd been too young then, to really understand these feelings. But maybe it has already started back then, way before he realized that what he felt for Uther was more than brotherly affection. Way before he had realized that it was _too much_. Too much to bear. And too much to ever be returned.  
Maybe the course for their joint way has already been set back then.

There is this tiny voice in his head – or is it his heart? - that tells him that this isn't true, but Vortigern ignores it. He lets his gaze wander through the small bay. Why did he, out of all places he could have gone to, come here? He knows the answer. Because that's what he's always done. And even after all these years, even after the promise he gave himself, to never set foot in this place again, it just needs another thing Uther does to make him do it again. To spark enough emotions in him to make him esca-

Vortigern clenches his fists, gritting his teeth, the familiar feeling of rage rising inside of him. He isn't sure who it is directed at. Uther, who has still so much power over him, the fact that he isn't even aware of it, only making it worse. Or himself, because even after all this time he isn't able to keep his feelings under control.

When he'd seen Uther standing on the edge of the destroyed bridge, realizing that not only Mordred was dead but also his brother was still alive, everything he'd felt for a few heartbearts was disbelieve, frustration, fury. At least he'd thought that was everything. But there had been another feeling inside of him, so deep down, so faint he nearly hadn't noticed it, but still _there._ Dragging and clear and unmistakable.

It hadn't been the rage about his failed plan that'd made him ignore his promise to never come here again. Nor the recognition and admiration his brother had gotten for his victory over Mordred.

But the feeling of _relief_ he'd felt as he'd seen Uther standing there. Alive.

The realisation that had followed shortly after and all the unwanted, tormenting emotions it brought with it.

Right before it had all ended, Vortigern had told him that he didn't think they could win this fight. It had effectuated nothing – of course. He'd never expected Uther to change his mind, knew, that his brother would do everything to defeat Mordred, to rescue the realm and all its residents, even if it would mean his death, like the oh so righteous king he was. That had been part of why he'd thought that his plan would work out. _Had_ worked out if the sword wouldn't be even stronger than Vortigern had thought.

There was only one reason, why he'd told Uther that he didn't believe they could conquer Mondred: Because he liked the image that, when his brother died, killed by Morded, how it had been plannen, his last thoughts would be that he should've listened to him. And that Vortigern had been right.

That's what he'd told himself, as he'd walked up to Uther, who'd been standing on the edge of the plateau, watching the battle, that had already seemed decided, beneath him. But now, here in this bay, trembling, even though the wind has currently stopped, Vortigern realizes that maybe he just did it so that he could have told himself afterwards, after Uthers death, that it had been his brothers decision. That he warned him and he'd chosen to do it anyways. That it was Uther's fault. And not his.

The stone splinters from the force with which it collides with the bigger rock. Another one hits the surface of the water, making it splash and ripple. The newly sprung up wind carries away his screams, the cries that follow the stones. But none of it manages to remove or at least _lessen_ the feeling inside his chest that threats to overwhelm him. That feels like it'd tear him apart on the inside, with such a relentless intensity that he'd do _anything_ to make it stop.

As he eventually, exhaustedly falls to his knees, barely even noticing the edges of the stones which bore into his flesh or the icy water soaking the fabric of his trousers, he's trembling again. But this time it's stronger, violently shaking his whole body, and just doesn't stop.

He doesn't know how long he cowers there like this, the quiet sounds escaping his mouth ragged and stifled.

„I suspected to find you here.“

The voice sounding from behind him, makes Vortigern flich slightly, abruptly falling silent. He doesn't even have to turn around to know who is standing there. Aside from the fact that there is just one plausible possibility, he'd recognise that voice everywhere.

Vortigern isn't sure if what he feels rising in his throat is a laugh - because _of course_ Uther had to find him, here, now - or another sob, but he doesn't wait to find out.

„Shouldn't you be with your advisors, confer the next steps, now that Mordred has fallen due to your glorious feat?“ His voice sounds cold, blasé.

He slowly gets to his feet, still with his back to Uther, who now seems to approach him, judging by the sound of steps getting closer.

„Brother..“

Vortigern closes his eyes, his mouth twisting in a mixture of anger and contempt – and maybe there's another thing, he doesn't want to name, in the preposterous attempt to pretent that it's not there.

Uther being here, involuntarily lets the memory of the last time he'd seen him in this place rise inside of him. He hadn't been alone then. Vortigern clenches his fists.

Expecting his brother to say something, to _talk,_ like he always does, the sudden touch on his shoulder catches him completely off guard. But it's not just this. It's the memory of that night, mixing with the present, Uther's hand, buried in long, black hair, laying on his shoulder, blurring in a way that he just can't bear it, that makes him turn around abruptly and grab his brother by the collar. He doesn't wear his crown, Vortigern distantly notices as he shoves him back, roughly pushing him up against a rock, _the_ rock, just a few feet away. Uther doesn't fight him, even though Vortigern can see the slight jolt in his brothers eyes. His hands lay on his chest – presumably the reflexes years of training had spawned – but without exerting any pressure. He knows that Uther could easily push him away – his brother had always been the taller, stronger one of them – but instead he _lets_ him, and Vortigern doesn't know if it pleases or infuriates him.

All he feels right now is seething anger which overlays every other feeling inside of him and maybe this is the reason why suddenly, there's a thought in his head. Obvious. Plausible. Before some part in him can hold him back, Vortigern reaches for the small dagger he hides in his doublet and presses the blade to Uther's throat. His brothers eyes are widened, the shock clearly visible, as he stares at him. The worry that had been there before, now significantly stronger, deeper. And still there's no fear in his gaze, as if he knew something Vortigern doesn't, which just makes the rage inside of him grow even more.

He presses the dagger firmer to Uther's throat, the blade slightly cutting into the skin, drawing blood. It glistens on the shiny metal, a sharp contrast between red and silver, and _oh,_ that sight is way more satisfying than he'd expected.

„I should have just killed you myself.“ He snarls through gritted teeth. „I should do it _now._ “

It is so easy, it's almost ridiculous. They're alone. He could just cut Uther's throat, watch the life vanish from his eyes, his blood painting the stones at their feet red. Carry him back to the castle, telling that he found him, that his brother seemed to have searched for him and that one of Mordreds henchmen must have got him. That their _beloved_ king had been killed. What a tragedy. And it wouldn't even be a lie.

Nobody would suspect him _._ And Uther would be gone. Finally. Irretrievable.

It would be so easy. Just one movement seperating him from his great victory. From the power of the sword. From the throne.

He increases the pressure of the blade against Uther's throat again, not enough to seriously harm him, but to let his brothers breath falter for a moment.

This, right here, right now, is the chance to get everything he wants, everything to make the aching desire in him disappear. But no matter how often Vortigern tells himself that, no matter how he internally screams at himself to _do_ it, his hand holding the dagger already slightly shaking from the tension in his muscles which just won't obey him, no matter how hard he tries _.._ he _can't_. And deep down he knows the reason for it. Suddenly, looking in Uther's dark, brown eyes, barely fifteen centimetres away from his own, becomes unbearable. He closes his eyes, still pressing the trembling blade to his brothers neck, gritting his teeth.

It would have been so easy. The victory had been so _close_ and again he fails to-

„Vortigern..“ Uther's voice is quiet, slightly strained and of course there's no pleading in it, just softness, that makes Vortigern want to vomit; and he knows that he has lost. Again.

He wants to scream, to shake his brother, to shove him away. Maybe that's his plan, as he opens his eyes and their gazes meet again. Instead he closes the small distance between them and presses his lips on Uther's. Rough. Angry. All his roaring frustration, all his seething anger laying in that kiss. And so many of the things he'd never said.

The feeling that explodes inside of him nearly throws him off his feet. The sensation of Uther's lips against his; something he'd imagined a thousand times before, except this time it is _real._

His first reaction is exactly what Vortigern had expected. Uther had always been predictable. And it only proves to be true, as his brother freezes, his hands, still clinging to Vortigerns doublet, stiffing. He knows that Uther won't try to push him away, not with a dagger pressed against his throat. He's not a fool. And maybe he's not that predictable as well. Because what Vortigern hadn't expected, is Uther to, after a few heartbeats, hesistantly, insecurely start moving his lips against his.

He can't stifle a small gasp escaping his mouth, a sharp, hot feeling flashing through him and Vortigern can't tell if it's anger or something else. But his thoughts fade away, in the haze of that feeling growing stronger and stronger, Uthers lips on his, their bodies pressed together and his brother's scent in his nose.

It's too close, _too_ _much._ And at the same time just _not enough._

In a swift motion he buries his hand in Uthers dark hair, drawing a soft gasp from him, which makes the fire inside of him burn even brighter and he knows that he'll never be able to forget that sound. Vortigern only realizes that he dropped the dagger as it lands with a loud clatter on the stones beneath them. He knows that Uther will push him away, now that the threat is gone. A part of him wants to step back, to preempt him, not deigning Uther this victory. And maybe also sparing himself the rejection. But all he can do is cling to his brother, savouring every second of what he knows he'll never feel again and god, he is so pathetic.

But Uther doesn't push him away, instead he pulls him even closer, thumb tracing his cheekbone, his hand somehow so much warmer than his own cold skin and Vortigern feels something break inside his chest.

There seems to be something in the way Uther's kissing him, deep, nearly desperate, in how he's holding him close, his fingers still softly lingering on his cheek, something like reassurance or a promise and he hates himself for wanting to believe it.

He's nearly thankful for this familiar feeling. Because it distracts him, for a moment, from the other things inside of him. Because it helps him, to feel his hate for Uther again. To hate him for touching, kissing him like this. It's this, that eventually enables Vortigern to finally break away from him. He stumbles two, three steps back, his eyes burn, just like something inside his chest. Something, that suddenly feels terribly empty.

A sudden gust of wind hits him, causing a stinging cold on his cheeks and it is only now, that he notices the new tears that had run down his face.

The way Uther looks at him, lips reddened and wet, his hair ruffled where Vortigern's hand had been buried, makes his entrails contract convulsively. There is pain is his slightly hazed eyes and something else he can not name – or doesn't want to.

Vortigern has never seen him look more beautiful. And it had never hurted more.

He wants to burn this picture into his mind. He wants to _forget_ it. He wants to scream at Uther, to beat him, to shove him away. He wants to pull him close, kiss him again and never let go.

Maybe it had been that moment, Uther, without the threat of a dagger pressed against his throat and kissing him anyway and Vortigern _letting_ him, which had told more than a thousand words spoken between them ever could, that forces him to face the truth now. A truth, he had buried so deep inside of him that he'd nearly forgotten that it was there, for so many years.

He hates Uther. But who he hates even more is himself. For not being able to banish his feelings. For his weakness of giving in to them again and again. And for the faint, but burning feeling of guilt he feels when he looks at Uther.

Yes, he hates him. But essentially he just hates him because he loves him so much. Too much. And from the way Uther looks at him, Vortigern knows that he can see it too.

"Vortigern.." He starts, moving away from the rock and towards him, slowly, as if he approached a wounded animal, and his voice is so sickeningly careful, so _gentle_ , that he just can't bear it.  
_Don't_ , he wants to say, not sure if it'll come out as a hate-filled hiss or a sob, but his throat is so tight that he can't say a word. Instead he makes one, two unsteady steps back, and then starts to run, leaving the small bay. Runs away. From Uther. From the feelings inside of him. From everything. He runs away, again, like the pathetic coward he is.

And everything he can think of, is how Uther had looked at him, just a few seconds ago. His brown eyes way too warm and a little too shiny. It had been the wind, Vortigern persuades himself. It must have been the wind. That's the only possible explanation.

**Author's Note:**

> One small thing: You remember that scene in which Vortigern gives this stone the fault for all this? Well, I wrote that scene and AFTER I finished it, I read it again and was like 'Oh. My. God. Did I just write this without even noticing HOW heartbreaking it is?!' Because (you might have noticed it, but in case you haven't: here's another heartbreak for you (thank me later)) in the movie Uther also turns into a STONE after/while he dies and we all know that Vortigern also tends to give his brother the fault for all this, so...  
> Man, I can't believe I wrote such a thing without even intending it.. :'D
> 
> A huge thank you and a big hug goes to my beta-reader Schattenmalerin!


End file.
